


Every Circus Needs a Fire

by Sonntam



Category: Curse of Strahd - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Cussing, Deception, M/M, Major Curse of Strahd Spoilers, OOC, irina is present and as vibrant as ever, of literally every character but I guess everyone's ismark and richten is a bit different, this is not a happy story but it will hopefully be a funny one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonntam/pseuds/Sonntam
Summary: What if adventurer's did not arrive, yet a familiar wagon rolled into the village of Barovia on the eve of mayor's death?Ismark drinks himself to oblivion in the tavern, but finds a bright outrageous man who agrees to escort Ismark and Ireena to Vallaki.Yet in Barovia nothing is ever as it seems and one should certainly not go on life or death journeys with men you do not know.
Relationships: Rudolph Van Richten/Ismark Kolyanovich
Kudos: 6





	1. For Every Funeral a Clown

Ismark’s head buzzed with gentle song of the wine. Blearily he opened his eyes and closed them again.

“… and so I told to the Crystal Queen: rip me apart, but let me keep my legs and arms, you wouldn’t think its too much to ask for… But she didn’t think so and made me into this and I spent so much time adjusting to having so much less legs, it’s a horror, kept my arms hidden for months, but you know…”

The loud voice that first woke him did not stop. Now Ismark felt his bladder complain. 

With a sigh Ismark lifted his head from the table and rubbed his face. Checking his purse (still there), he focused his gaze on the owner of the unfamiliar voice. 

It was a blond guy with bright blue eyes twinkling at the ladies listening to the chattermouth. Two Vistani girls who seemed almost more interested in their drinks than the story. One whispered something to another and she giggled.

Ismark wanted to spit on the ground, but his manners reminded him not to do that. Fucking Vestans. Fucking Strahd. Fuck this place entirely.

Instead Ismark spun around and walked out of the tavern. There was an outhouse in the back somewhere… but Ismark could not see it in the dark. He peered at the corner where the outhouse used to be, but then shrugged and just pissed on the wall. It was not like there was anyone here anyway and at this point it was not like he cared even if someone saw him. A chill wind blew straight through Ismark’s clothes. Along with it came the horrifying clarity he had been trying to avoid.

Ismark tunelessly whistled to clear his head and made his way to the door which to his surprise turned out to be the frontdoor. Explained why he did not find the outhouse.

The tavern greeted him with warmth and promise of more wine. Ismark stumbled past the blond guy. Did he see him before? Not a villager, but his face did seem familiar. Maybe a guard the Martikovs hired for a delivery. But no, they were not bound to come here until next month.

Ismark waved over the bartender and put a coin on the counter. There was always this strange sour smell near the counter, but Ismark was not quite sure if it came from the bartender or spilt wine.

A fly buzzed by Ismark’s cheek and he shooed it away with his hand. His hand got caught by someone and Ismark turned in surprise. The blond chattermouth vigorously shook his hand:

“Happy to see you, or happy to meet you? Have we met before? I think so, but you are welcome to disagree. I am glorious Rictavio, pleased to make the acquaintance, be at your service, oh and your name would be?…”

“Don’t know you,” said Ismark staring dumbly at the glorious Rictavio who looked even more vibrant up front. His outfit was in glaring purple and a hat handsomely covered the pretty blond head. Finally, Ismark caught himself: “I am Ismark Kolyanov.”

“Mayor of Barovia? Or his son?”

“The mayor… and the son,” Ismark felt his lips grow numb. Just saying it out loud made Ismark feel all the pain and grief well up in him. Then those emotions turned into anger at this man who casually opened fresh wounds.

It was not right to be angry at a man merely at a bad place at a bad time. Ismark swallowed down the misdirected anger and said civilly:

“A drink?”

“Oh gladly! But better only one, because I think my arms may grow back if I drink too many and for all my fondness of the legs and arms they are quite too many and if I am forced to lose them again, it would be a disaster, quite sad, to lose something you already lost before, not worth it at all.”

Now Ismark faintly recalled talks of Rictavio and even his brightly colored wagon. An idea flashed through Ismark’s mind, but Rictavio jovially toasted to Ismark and he lost the thread of thought. The idea was not quite gone, however, and Ismark felt he almost had it.

“So, you are here for long?” interrupted Ismark the tirade Rictavio rolled out without a single pause for breath.

“Not long at all, a next day or a week maybe, who knows, wouldn’t want to stay for long, but not for too little either…”

“Then can you take my sister and me to Vallaki?” interrupted Ismark him once again.

The idea, so asinine at first, soon blazed its trail through Ismark’s head. A lone man riding down the dangerous roads of Barovia could defend himself well enough. He could take Irina… and maybe Ismark, just in case, because a lone man is still a lone man and Ismark wanted to leave nothing up to chance.

Rictavio blinked at Ismark in confusion, as if the very notion of traveling with others was bewildering.

“I would have to ask Drusilla, I don’t normally do this, you know, you never know the darkness in a man’s heart until you spend a night with them and after talking to Drusilla I always know what to do, her wisdom is always a comfort…”

“Let me explain first. You can answer later. ” Ismark stopped himself right before his voice grew pleading. By Lord of Morning, he was so desperate. Just once, would someone in this lands take pity on the poor souls living here, anyone at all. 

Rictavio quirked his lips in a smile and said:

“I do love a good story! Do tell, do tell.”

And so Ismark did.


	2. Candle in the Dark

Ismark paced in his room. His gaze wandered over the familiar belongings while barely seeing them. What else did he need for the road? It was only when packing he realized how little of it he would need. How little he needed even here, living in this big house. All the furniture seemed faded, like the clothes of a dead person. 

It was like the house was a shell for his father, like a lamp brightened by the candle inside. Now the fire went out and the house grew cold. 

Ismark had to become the new flame, not just for his home, but for the whole town. He always knew it would be his future someday, but for whatever foolish reason he did not think he would need to step up so soon.

Ismark stopped by the bed and started rifling through his bag. Flasks (one with wine, one with water), tinderbox, tightly folded blanket, salt, a tangled rope (Ismark fished it out and rolled it into a neat circle) and even some chalk (what for? well, it did not take up much place anyway). He packed so much, yet so little. He packed another set of clothing and with a pang thought of all the dresses Ireena had. Did she pack them? She could stow them in the waggon, no doubt. At the very least it would not look like Ireena is a refugee who had barely the time to pack the essentials. 

Ireena could make a new home in Vallaki. It was a much better place to live in than the village Barovia anyway. It had to be. Hell, Ismark himself would have moved there, were it not for his responsibilities. For a moment Ismark savored the joy of finally seeing Vallaki, the great town with paved streets standing valiant against the Devil. Then, a pang of guilt reminded him that for Ireena this would not be a day trip, but a one way journey.

Unable to stand still any longer, Ismark left his room. Quietly he went downstairs. There the coffin greeted him and Ismark placed a hand upon it, saying goodbye to his father. 

When father died Ireena barely spoke, numb with grief. Ismark cursed the world for both of them, little good it did him. It was when they started building the coffin that she started talking. In fact, the talk soon devolved into bickering. It was hard not to snap at each other when both of them were so frustrated, scared and tired. They did not sleep well in the days before father died. It was a surprise the coffin turned out as well as it did and that Ireena did not smash his head with a hammer. Hopefully the bottom of it would not give out when they would carry it to the cemetery, the first couple nails really did not go in as they should have.

A sharp sound broke the silence. Ismark’s head snapped in the direction of his father’s study. Ismark quietly drew the sword and strained his ears trying to listen for the next sound.

This did not sound like someone breaking in, more like a screech from some manner of beast. The attacks have stopped since the death of Ismark’s father, but what if…

Ismark heard nothing else as he approached father’s study. Carefully Ismark turned the door handle and slowly opened the door. At first, he saw nothing but darkness, but then his heart skipped a beat. A small, furred creature with gangly limbs was rifling through his father’s desk, carelessly tossing papers to the floor and with long, almost human like fingers combed through journals in the table drawer.

“Hey!” snapped Ismark in indignation.

The creature raised its head with big, almost human like eyes, looking him straight in the eyes… and quickly scampered off into the open window before Ismark even made a step inside. 

With a snap Ismark put his greatsword back and cursed under his breath. He had no one to blame but his impulsiveness for startling the creature. Still, what was that thing? What did it want?

Ismark walked over to the window and peered outside. Nothing, predictably. He locked the window (how did that creature get inside anyway?) and picked up the papers from the floor. He lit a candle and then tried to bring the papers into a resemblance of order. He did not have the time to go through his father’s things and could not tell if something had gone missing. Father did not keep important notes anyway… or did he? Ismark idly picked through the journals himself. Some were diaries, others were fiscal notes. The neat, orderly handwriting rose the longing in Ismark for his father. 

He put everything back, except for his father’s diary. Ismark told himself, he would take it for safekeeping. He was not going to read it, just keep it close, so that no thief would steal it. Ismark closed the door behind him and then he paused. Did he not lock it before? He did not use a key just now, did he? Ismark could not remember.

Full of bad feelings, Ismark made his way through the house, checking all windows and locks. Nothing was out of place and Ismark increasingly felt like a ghost doing its rounds. Do not mind me, just a restless man wandering the halls with a candle in hand and trying to find a semblance of peace.

Ismark ended up in front of Ireena’s door and wondered if he should knock. She was cross with him for inviting a stranger to their house. She was right, of course. Ismark was not thinking straight. Nevertheless, he was convinced, this was the right move, even if the execution was lacking.

Rictavio was still holding out on the answer. Said he needed to sleep on it and talk to Drusilla (which turned out to be the horse pulling the wagon). Ismark worried if he let him stay in the tavern he would be long gone by the time Ismark went to see him.

Ireena would forgive him, of course. Yet it did not feel right for them to bicker when they were so close to parting from each other. 

Was Ireena fast asleep or still preparing herself for the journey? Ismark thought he heard splashing of water, probably Ireena was dying her hair. Or was it a faint sound of crying? Would she open the door if he knocked or would she prefer to stay in solitude instead of being comforted?

Ireena grew so much. Ismark missed the girl from the orphanage. She was quiet, but not scared of the unfamiliar surroundings and strange people. Ireena held Ismark’s hand as he showed her around the house, around the village. He was so happy to have a new playmate. When Ireena had nightmares, she came to him at night and he felt braver and stronger than ever, protecting his little sister from the monsters in the dark.

Now the monsters in the dark had come for them and Ismark could neither protect his sister nor his father. Father was dead and Ireena would be soon gone. Would she even write to him or prefer to forget all the terror of her past? Would they become strangers, seeing each other once a year or once a decade?

In the end, Ismark turned away. They would have time to talk on the road… if Ismark would even be able to put all his worries and regrets into words.

Ismark went to his room, put the backpack on the floor and fell on the bed fully dressed. He wished he had more wine, closed his eyes and fell into sleep with dreams as exhausting as his waking hours.


	3. A Lonely Road

A funeral is a sad ordeal, no matter how you go about it. Still, Ismark never imagined it would be this grim.

Ireena and Ismark, the two orphans, carried the coffin of the mayor of the town. No one followed them to cry and wail. No one offered words of condolences. Windows and doors remained shut and Ismark felt reproach emanating from them.

Ismark remembered how villagers greeted his father when he lead young Ismark and Ireena around the village. Everyone had something to say to the mayor… and Ismark’s father always listened. 

One mistake, one failure was all it took to be forgotten. Becoming the enemy of count Strahd… no, just appearing to fall out of favor and was all it took. Your neighbors won’t help you, they will shun you out of fear. You will die and no one will help to bury your corpse.

Ismark lead this miserly procession and when he looked back at Ireena, her face was a facade of calmness. So Ismark did not cry either, even if his eyes burned. Loneliness suffocated him and he felt like he could choke on the mist surrounding the village, on the emptiness of the streets, on the futility of all of his actions.

The church greeted them with the wails of the vampire. Duro had good and bad days, as far as Ismark could tell. Sometimes he moaned quietly and sometimes he screamed his heart out. Poor Donovich had not just to seal his undead son below holy ground, but also listen to his suffering. 

“My condolences.”

Father Donovich approached them and made a holy sign for all three of them. 

“I have prepared a spot for your father… Come with me.”

It was hard to hear Donovich over the loud screeches, but the message was clear in the way he turned around and led the way to the graveyard. Ismark felt relieved by the lack of conversation and by seeing Donovich himself. A father without a son and children burying their own father. If there was one person still able to muster sympathy for them, it was Donovich. After they put down the coffin, he showed them where the grave was to be dug. He stayed watching their efforts and his eyes bore a sadness Ismark felt comforted by.

Ismark and Ireena dug into the soft ground. Gracefully yesterday’s rain prepared the earth for the departure of the mayor, the best person this village ever produced, the hero who never got his chance to prove himself… Mist lapped at the outskirts of the town and Ismark shuddered as he thought he would be leaving the boundaries of the village to step into the milky neverland. 

The grave ended up being shallow. They did not have much time if they wanted to leave early today. Ismark was embarrassed to admit, that he did not remember where they would stop for the night. Rictavio talked to him at length about his plans for the journey, but Ismark was drunk and Rictavio was not one for getting to the point quickly. He would have to find a way to ask discreetly, lest Ireena kills him for good.

Lowering the coffin, it slipped out of Ireena’s hands and crashed at the bottom. It was enough to create a crack, showing father’s head in an unseemly way. His neck was bent in an unnatural way and it looked like his spine broke and his head snugly laid at his shoulder. His face was pulled into a macabre grimace which resembled a smirk. 

Ireena’s shoulders trembled, she spun around and walked to the broken fence. Ismark walked to her and firmly embraced her, burying his face in her neck. Ireena sobbed and Ismark held her close. Fabric of Ireena’s doublet absorbed his tears and her warmth reminded him that he had no one else in this world. If the Devil took her from him, all would be lost.

“I am here,” whispered Ismark, “your big brother is here.”

***

On a road framed by trees a vividly painted wagon was pulled by a single horse. The jockey gesticulated wildly, regaling two travellers walking on foot right next to him.

“And then I pulled my sword pulsing with holy light…”

“Was it not a rapier?” interrupted Ismark.

“Well, yes, I had a bejeweled rapier which could pierce hearts of evildoers like the gaze of angels, but you forget about my Sword of Radiance destroying everything in its path…”

Ismark nodded, losing his interest once again. As he walked beside the wagon, he watched for movement. The dense woods of Barovia unnerved Ismark. Bushes hugged the road and trees stretched out its branches above their heads, taking the little light left from them.

It was different from the wide open plains with fields surrounding Ismark’s home village. There you could see any threat from afar. All village men were trained in bows and knew how to fend off wolves trying to take their livestock. His father praised Ismark’s sword skills as well, but now with the forest closing in, he felt unprepared. It was too easy to ambush someone on the roads. Werewolves, vampires, bandits… and who knows what else was lurking beyond the feeble reach of civilization.

Ireena walked next to Ismark, a source of comfort and worry. She was his sparring partner from time to time… but she never took upon it with as much fervor as Ismark who in his youth dreamt of being a hero vanquishing the devil… Ireena said she would be happy enough just to live peacefully with her family.

How curious how the two dreams intersected. No peace in the land of the devil.

“Well, and that is the end of the story! I’m afraid, I shall not entertain you any further, not that I am in any danger of running out of stories to tell, but as you should know, the dangers of the Barovian woods are untold and prudence is a man’s best friend.”

Rictavio fell quiet, blissfully. Thoughtfully he peered from the brim of his outlandishly wide hat. It could be useful in the rain… but then again it would get soaked through far too quickly. 

Quickly, Rictavio found everything to his satisfaction and started humming an out of tune melody Ismark did not recognize.

Leisurely sitting at the edge of the wagon and steering the horse, Rictavio looked oddly cheerful and relaxed. Hell, he even swung his legs like a kid.

Ismark felt his blood boil just from looking at this guy. Rictavio did not allow either of them into the wagon. After much haggling, he conceded that he would allow them to store their bags in the wagon, but they would walk the entire way to Vallaki. 

Now Ismark wondered if he was too trusting. What would stop Rictavio from spurring his horse at the slightest hint of danger and leave them behind? Ismark did not hand him the money, not yet, but it was easy pickings to come back once the wolves were sated and rifle through their pockets.

“Pray tell, did you run into any problems on the way to our village?”

“Fair many! Poor Drusilla lost a horseshoe and you have to know, they are expensive and I am no smith. The bread I bought just a few days ago grew moldy, it’s a surprise I myself did not find the mold on myself, you should know I am prone to bad skin and this climate does not do me well…”

“Did anyone attack you?” raised his voice Ismark. Ireena hid a smile behind her hood of her cloak. 

“Ah, that. Well, yes, it gave Drusilla such a fright. She saw a rabid badger when we camped, whinnied so badly I feared she would bolt into the forest and that would be unfortunate, neither of us have time for playing tag, as fun as it would be.”

Lucky, Ismark wondered, or evasive? He must have fighting experience… even if Ismark did not see a crossbow or a rapier on him. Even if he just ran, did he have any ways of slowing enemies down?

“What shall we do, if something attacks?” spoke up Ireena.

“You may, most graciously, do nothing. Hop on with me and hold on,” Rictavio patted his seat which was barely wide enough for three people to sit. There was not much to hold on to, especially if the horse picked up the pace. 

Ismark looked at the weary Drusilla slowly trudging along and wondered if she even could pick up the pace with a wagon and three passengers.

“And then?” pressed Ireena.

“Then the Fantastic Rictavio…” with a flourish Rictavio bowed and barely caught his hat which almost fell off, “… will do his magic and shoo off the uncouth beasts attacking such pleasant company.”

“So you are a wizard then?” asked Ismark with a surprise

“I would not use that word, wizards are such unpleasant men, no manners, only dusty books in their head. I wrote a couple books in my days, but I wonder sometimes how I did that, so many words and you should know, I do not like wasting my time too many words.”

Ireena looked at Ismark, the question apparent in her eyes. Ismark shrugged his shoulders. This conversation was reassuring in some ways, but raised more questions than Rictavio was willing or able to answer.

As Rictavio rambled on, Ismark took Ireena’s hand and squeezed it. Ireena smiled faintly and squeezed back.


End file.
